A shudder passed through her body. “The next thing I expect to hear you say is that you’re going to invite ComStar to set up a communications center here on Outreach.”
That suggestion won a chuckle from Wolf. “Not a chance. ComStar may well control communications between stars in the Inner Sphere, but their benign pacifism died with Primus Julian Tiepolo. The new Primus, this Myndo Waterly, is aggressive and dangerous. She’s already forced Davion to allow her to post BattleMechs in ComStar compounds as a condition for lifting the communications ban ComStar imposed over his Federated Suns. I’ll not put us in that position.”
Natasha smiled. “Ah, thank God you are sane after all.” She sighed wearily. “Look at us. We’ve been fighting here for twenty-five years. We should be retiring, not worrying about preparing others for a war that may not come. That task should fall to the whelps up and coming.”
Jaime laid a hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “I agree with you, but we have a problem. The youngsters have been raised here in the Successor States of the Inner Sphere. We lost a good number of them fifteen years ago in the Free Worlds League, and then even more escaping from the Draconis Combine two years ago. The survivors weren’t raised with the same traditions as we. They barely understand that we’re different. And now we have outsiders among us. They, too, must be trained and inculcated with our ways. The only people who can do the training are those of us who have survived all these years.”
The Black Widow shook her head ruefully. “You’re right, of course. And they were right to put you and not me in charge of this fool’s mission.” She brought her head up and thrust her chin forward defiantly. “If they’re going to come, I only hope they come soon, before I’m too old to pilot a ‘Mech. They’ve got a lot to answer for, and I mean to make them pay.”
Wolf stood back and folded his hands across his chest. “They’re coming, all right, and it may be sooner than we think. As much as I understand your wish, I hope you don’t get it.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Because if we’re still around and in fighting shape, you know the others won’t have had time to prepare. And that means the Fourth Succession War that’s just ended will seem like the overture to the end of Mankind.”
CHAPTER ONE
STORTALAR CITY, GUNZBURG
RADSTADT PROVINCE
FREE RASALHAGUE REPUBLIC
19 MAY 3049
Feeling like a spy trapped light years behind enemy lines, Phelan Kell forced himself to walk nonchalantly into the smoky beerhaus. For the first time this evening, I wish I’d listened to Jack Tang when he forbade me to head out on this search. Someday I’ll learn he’s not giving orders just to hear himself talk. The young mercenary squinted to pierce the gloom, but made no effort to remove his mirrored sunglasses. I might have been stupid enough to wander off the reservation, but I’m not removing my disguise, especially not in here. C’mon, Tyra. Be here.
When someone touched his arm, Phelan swung around instantly and nearly jumped out of his skin at the sight of the Gunzburg Eagles uniform. At that moment, he thought he would have to fight his way out of the Allt Ingar, but then he recognized the uniformed woman. Phelan’s grimace changed to a smile, but died almost as quickly at the fury on her face.
“Are you crazy?” she hissed, her tone as wintry as the nightwinds howling in the streets of Stortalar City. She jerked Phelan away from the door and into a darkened booth. “What the hell are you doing off the reservation?”
Phelan wedged his long, lean body into the shadowy corner. “Where is she, Anika? I have to talk with her.”
“I don’t know, and right now I don’t care,” Anika Janssen said wearily. “But you’ve got to get back to the reservation, Phelan. You’re only asking for trouble being out here.”
Phelan removed his glasses and hung them by an earpiece at the throat of the thick sweater he wore under the black parka. “I’m going to find her. If you think it means trouble for me to be found outside the mercenary’s quarter, wait and see what happens if I don’t find Tyra tonight!”
Anika grabbed Phelan’s balled right fist in both her hands. “Dammit, Phelan. Don’t fight me on this. If you recall, I backed Tyra’s play concerning you to the hilt. Don’t act stupid and make me regret it.” She snorted with exasperation. “I should have seen it wouldn’t work...”
Phelan relaxed his fist, but the tension in his body remained. “Not you too, Nik.” A sour expression drew his black eyebrows together. “I thought you were free of the anti-mercenary feeling that runs through the Republic.”
“So did I.” She matched Phelan’s green-eyed stare with one of arctic blue and forced him to yield. “You Kell Hounds, during this unplanned stay in Stortalar City, have done a great deal to explode the myth we Rasalhagians hold so dearly.”
Phelan laughed angrily. “A myth you cling to like a drowning man.”
Anika tightened her right hand, letting the nails dig into his wrist. “There you go, making me wonder if I’m right to give you a chance at all. Just when I’m about to agree with you, you take a cheap shot that gets my back up. I don’t deserve that and you know it.”
Phelan looked down and picked at a set of initials carved into the lacquered table-top. “You’re right, Nik.” His eyes came back up. “Sentiment among the Hounds has gotten nastier now that we’re leaving. You know that the merchants in the restricted zone have gouged the hell out of us, and that there are citizen groups patrolling the area, just waiting for some excuse to bust mercenary skulls.”
Anika winced as she nodded in agreement. “And I don’t like it any better than you do. But can’t you see that even though Rasalhague is a young nation, we fought for centuries to win back our independence from the Draconis Combine. Then just when we thought we had it—with the Combine’s blessings to boot—we had to fight renegade Combine soldiers in the Ronin Wars. A lot of mercenaries deserted our cause because of technicalities in their contracts, and that left a bad taste. People here resented the mercs even more when we had to turn around almost immediately and hire more to supplement our armed forces to hang on to our freedom. Is it any wonder so many of us hate mercenaries?”
“No, I don’t wonder about that,” Phelan said, a twinkle in his eyes. “In fact, with so much of the resentment coming from the Royal Rasalhague Army, I’m proud to count you and Tyra as friends. Even if you are aerojocks…”
Anika grinned. “Someone has to teach you dirt-stompers some manners.”
Phelan raked a hand back through his thick black hair. “So, where is she?”
Anika stiffened. “I told you before, I don’t know.”
The young mercenary’s eyes narrowed. “But what about the other half of what you said? You do care where she is, Nik.” Phelan chewed his lower lip for a moment. “You’re out looking for her yourself, aren’t you?”
Anika stared hard at Phelan. “Yes, I do care where she is. She’s my wingmate and my flight leader and my friend. Your deduction about why I’m out tonight, however, is grossly off the mark. In point of fact, I was out looking for you.” She pointed at his parka and the mirrored sunglasses. “Did you really think that borrowing a Home Guard’s jacket and wearing those glasses would disguise you? You’re brighter than that.”
Her remark struck home, kindling both anger and frustration. This is getting to be a majority opinion, Phelan. “Perhaps I’m not that intelligent, Lojtnant Janssen.”
Anika pounded her fist on the table, then glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. “There you go again,” she said in an angry whisper. “Most of the time I forget you’re just an eighteen-year-old kid because you usually act so much more mature.”
Phelan’s eyes focused distantly. “Growing up in a mercenary company doesn’t give you much of an opportunity to be a kid.” Especially if your father is a living legend and your cousin is heir to the thrones of the Federated Suns and Lyran Commonwealth. Everyone treats you as though you’re different. “Not much of a chance to be a kid at all.”
“
This is not the place to be making up for lost time,” Anika told him. “You go from being intelligent and understanding to pig-headed and pouty in an instant. No wonder the Nagelring bounced you out when it had the chance.”
Phelan’s head came up sharply, but he said nothing. How could you? I thought you were a friend. He stared at Anika, unbelieving, then slid from the booth and pulled his glasses onto his face like a mask.
Anika grabbed his left wrist to turn him back to her. “Listen, Phelan—”
The outrage in Phelan’s voice cut her off. “No, you listen. I don’t know what Tyra said about my leaving the Academy or what she told you about the Honor Board’s findings. I had my reasons for what I did and those Academy morons chose to ignore them and the positive consequences of my actions. Well, I didn’t need them and I don’t need you patronizing me and trying to direct my life!”
He loomed over her, but never lost control of his fury. “One thing I do know is this: no matter why Tyra told you about all that, I know she wouldn’t have done it if she knew how you’d use that information. You’ve betrayed her trust.” Twisting free of her grasp, he straightened to his full height and zipped up the black parka to his throat. “Tell her I was looking for her, or don’t—as you wish.”
By the time Phelan’s anger cooled off enough to let him see straight, he was a block down from the Allt Ingar, his course unconsciously taking him further from the mercenary quarter. Dammit, Phelan, you totally and utterly blew it. Nik’s been the only Rasalhagian who’s not told Tyra she’s crazy for continuing to see you after finding out who and what you are. She was probably just trying to keep you from getting into trouble. Her remark might have been out of line, but it was the only way she could get through to you.
He hunched his shoulders against the cold, then fished mittens from his pockets and pulled them on. Looking up at the orange and gold striations of Gunzburg’s nearest planetary neighbor, Phelan shook his head. “Yeah,” he said to the deaf world floating above him in the dark void, “wandering off the reservation was stupid. If I get chucked into the local jail, I won’t be out before the Lugh leaves this dirtball to rendezvous with the Cucamulus. The idea of being stuck here until our transport returns from the Periphery thrills me not at all.”
Phelan snorted out twin plumes of steam. And it would be just one more instance of how insubordinate you are. Jack Tang is going to have your head for this little outing. Why do you have to be such a loner? Just like Tyra, the people in your lance would be your friends if you gave them time.
Time, that’s the key, isn’t it? You’re always in a hurry to do what you think needs to be done. That means Phelan answers only to Phelan, and that’s what lands you in so much trouble. And your familiarity with trouble is what keeps most people back. No one in his right mind wants to play toss with live munitions.
As Phelan crossed the snow-dusted, cobblestone street and started back toward the outskirts of Stortalar City, the holographic display on the wall of a building flashed to life with a new advertisement. The image of a silver-maned, gray bearded man burned onto the screen. Dressed in a military uniform, the man gave off great power and vitality. He greeted the nearly deserted street with a confident smile, but the jagged scar that ran from over the man’s left eye down into his beard robbed the smile of its warmth.
The expression faded to a more serious one as the man began to speak and the translation scrolled across the bottom of the screen. Though Phelan could not read the text written in Swedenese—the bastardized Swedish and Japanese dialect used by most people on the planet—he knew it to be an admonishment by the planet’s military governor that the people of Rasalhague pull together to help create an even stronger union.
Is it so easy as that? Phelan thought bitterly as the message droned on. Is it so easy for people to abandon themselves to some greater cause? Don’t they ever question the motivations of their leaders? Don’t they ever look out for themselves? What does one do when his loyalty to a great cause comes in conflict with his own best interest?
During the ad, the camera panned back just enough to make it plain to all viewers that the man was seated in a wheelchair. Phelan shook his head as the image faded slowly to black. “Trust Tor Miraborg to never miss a chance to remind people he lost the use of his legs fighting for their freedom.” Phelan frowned as the steam from his breath covered his face with a translucent veil. “Trust him to never let people forget that mercenaries betrayed him and caused his injury.”
The echoes of Miraborg’s voice recalled to Phelan his first meeting with Gunzburg’s Varldherre, when he’d traveled down to Gunzburg with Captain Gwyneth Wilson in a shuttle to ask Miraborg for the liquid helium needed to repair the Cu. I guess the Captain must have thought it would help to have the son of a legendary MechWarrior along when visiting the high and mighty. Such a good icebreaker: “Oh, Morgan Kell is your father?” All Wilson wanted was enough liquid helium to refill one of the tanks surrounding the Kearny-Fuchida jump drive, but she hadn’t counted on tangling with the Iron Jarl.
Phelan spat at a snow bank. The way Tor reacted, you’d have thought we were the Periphery raiders the Kell Hounds had been hired to fight. He took special offense with me, as if my father’s accomplishments somehow diminished his own bravery. Of course, I didn’t help things by bristling as he insulted my parents.
Phelan stared at the Varldherre’s stern visage as it appeared on another holodisplay set further down the street. “Why didn’t you just give us the freeze-juice and be done with it? If you had, none of this would have happened.” His chest tightened as he crossed the snowy street to a row of brick buildings. I’d not have met Tyra, and the Kell Hounds would have been off fighting Periphery pirates instead of being stuck here for three months.
Stepping into the mouth of an alley shortcut he’d discovered, Phelan hunched against the cold and thrust his mittened hands deeper in his pockets as he walked. “Couldn’t do it the easy way, could you?”
Stars exploded into shimmering blue and gold balls as the roundhouse right slammed into the left side of Phelan’s face. The punch snapped his head around to the right and sent him flying back out into the street. Staggered by the blow, Phelan clawed ineffectually at the air as he fell. His feet slipped on the icy layer beneath the powdered snow on the ground and he crashed heavily to the roadway.
Snowflakes burned on the bare flesh of his face. Scrambling to gather his limbs beneath himself, Phelan shook his head to clear it. Jesus, I haven’t been hit that hard since... since...Blake’s Blood! I’ve never been hit that hard. Gotta focus.
His attempt to concentrate on his martial arts training was interrupted by a booted kick to the stomach that flipped Phelan over on his back. A wave of nausea washed through him as he continued to roll onto one side and then vomited. His attacker’s derisive laughter mocked Phelan’s agonized moan.
Snow crunched beneath the attacker’s booted feet as he closed for another kick. Phelan, lying on his right side, scythed his legs backward through his foe’s shins, dumping the man onto his face. Striking before his enemy had time to react, Phelan rolled to his back and snapped his left heel down onto the base of the man’s spine. He didn’t hear the crisp sound of bones breaking, but a harsh cry of anger and pain told him he’d hurt his foe.
Unsteadily gaining his feet, Phelan spat at the ground and wiped vomitus from his lips with the back of his right hand. “Now I can see you, you bastard. Come on.” The pain in his stomach made his words come in short, clipped bursts. He bent his knees slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and balled his fists.
Beyond his downed assailant, from every tiny snatch of shadow that defined the buildings on the darkened street, human forms moved forward. Phelan’s heart sank. Four, five, no...six. You’ve really screwed up this time. If they don’t kill you, Captain Wilson and Lieutenant Tang will. Focus, focus, Phelan, or you’re worm food.
“Mercenary scum,” someone cursed. “Take our money, take our women. We don’t need your k
ind here.”
Phelan pulled off his glasses and tossed them away. They know about Tyra. This is going to be nasty.
The Kell Hound forced himself to relax for the second or two it took the mob to gather its courage and attack. He let his head bob for a moment and his hands hang limp, as though the effects of the initial punch had not worn off yet. As they moved toward him, Phelan’s years of training allowed him to spot which of the approaching men could hurt him most. There, that trio of them. If I take them first, then the others might scatter.
The mercenary slid a half-step to the right and jabbed straight out at his nearest attacker. His punch crushed the man’s nose, whipping his head back to the right. The man spun away, careening into a second attacker and knocking him aside. Phelan pivoted on his right foot, turning his back to this opening in the circle of enemies and expanded it by lashing out with his left fist to catch another man in the throat.
Spitting and coughing, that man went down, but his defeat did not daunt the trio still standing. The centermost man, a burly, bull-necked individual, charged in low and fast. Phelan straightened him up with a knee to the face, but his bulk just carried him forward. He locked his arms around Phelan’s waist, pinning the MechWarrior in place as the other vigilantes closed in for the kill.
Phelan desperately rained blow after blow on the head and shoulders of the man holding him. The Kell Hound ducked and dodged his head as much as possible, but his lack of mobility meant body blows found him an easy target. The thick padding of his parka and the sweater underneath prevented the punches from breaking any bones, but the pounding sent shockwaves through his stomach, kidneys, and lungs.
Warrior: Coupé (The Warrior Trilogy, Book Three): BattleTech Legends, #59 Page 39
